Magic, My Dear
by TheBakerStreetIrregulars
Summary: Young man of mystery, Sherlock Holmes, takes on some of the greatest magical challenges in his life...Pixies included.


Firstly, we'd like to make something clear. This is not supposed to be taken seriously. On any level. This all really started when we, Laetitia and Noelle, started joking about what the reaction of Sherlock Holmes would be if he were sorted by the Sorting Hat and what he'd have to say. Then we had exciting random ideas of doing a Holmes/Hogwarts crossover fic and we were going to do one in Holmes' time period, but then thought, how fantastically ridiculous would it be to have the pair start Hogwarts when Harry, Ron and Hermione did?

Please don't take this seriously. Just take this as a bit of fun. Yes, we've taken incredible license with the backgrounds of Watson and Holmes. It's just for fun. And as much as Laetitia liked the modern BBC Sherlock with Benedict Cumberbatch, she does prefer Sherlock being in his time, so please don't throw things in anger at how could she violate Sherlock Holmes so much? We both grew up with Basil the Great Mouse Detective, Noelle is a huge fan of Detective Goren from CI, Monk and House, all different adaptions of the character. They both have a slight obsession which is a little psychotic with Robert Downey Junior as Holmes, Laetitia has gone to the museum on Baker Street and so on and so forth. We're just having fun. Please don't throw things at us.

And we're major Harry Potter crazies.

Enjoy. Please read and review. Really. We sort of need to know whether to continue this or not. :)

* * *

><p><strong><em>Magic, My Dear...<em>**

**Chapter One.**

It wasn't at all what young Master Holmes had expected, as he stepped into the vast dining hall as subtly as he could, joining the rest of the first years, with his friend John behind him. Although, if he were to be honest, he couldn't really explain what he had been expecting. Certainly nothing so..._Medieval_...As a castle. What would be next, Iron Maidens for beds? He looked about him, his eyes wide as he took everything in. Four long dining tables lit with multitudes of candles made up the majority of the room, with each table being of the different school houses. He had read up on each and every one…Slytherin full of the ambitious, Ravenclaw full of the intellectuals, Gryffindor full of the courageous and Hufflepuff…Well…Hufflepuff was full of the rest. He heard the sharp intake of breath from John behind him, and he looked up as John wordlessly pointed above. The majestic ceiling of the dining hall, as black as if the ebony ink of a bottle had been spilled across the sky, with twinkling pinpricks of stars scattered in the tumult of black. Master Holmes' stomach quelled uneasily, and he shifted on his feet as they all waited for the ceremony of Sorting to begin. _"This is unreal,"_ he heard John say breathlessly.

He had been sent the letter of course, like the rest of the first years around him had. The writing had been in emerald ink, which had impressed him, and his young eyes had eagerly scanned the words in Latin underneath the crest of sorts. _Draco Dormiens nunquam titillandus _- 'Let sleeping dragons lie'. _Indeed!_ He had grinned when he had recognized what the words meant, and slapped his hand on the breakfast table, "Marvellous, Father! It almost seems authentic. Wonderful effort, I might have fallen for the trick if not for the obvious ridiculousness with the names on the book list. Arsenius Jigger...The name is most certainly made up. You should have looked up a name from my books on mythology...Hephaestus Jones would have been better, one needs to balance the absurd with some semblance of normality to make it believable."

"It's... It's no ploy, son," his Father stated as he placed his knife and fork down carefully, "Your mother and I decided it was best not to tell you and your brother unless you showed signs of it as well."

"Signs of what? Turning _toads_ into _teacups?_ I must have forgotten I could do that trick," Master Holmes retorted drily.

"He means there's a deeper reason as to why you're such an insufferable know-it-all," his brother Mycroft said absently while reading the paper.

"Other than my usual brilliance?" the young boy replied haughtily, "Besides, you're a know it all too."

"Yes," his brother answered taking a bite of his toast, "But I'm not insufferable."

"So, supposing this is true. _You _weren't born a - a wizard?" the boy asked his brother.

"Nope, I'm just a know-it-all out of pure intellect," his brother answered smugly, "So, sucks to be you, Sherlock."

"Now, now," their Father replied curtly, "There will be none of that grammatically incorrect talk at the table, thank you."

This did not stop the brothers from sticking their tongues out as their father went to reading the letter after his son had placed it down.

"I don't believe this..." the young boy said to himself as his Father had organised a day to go collect his schoolbooks, "Magic doesn't exist..."

"Your mother was a witch," his Father replied.

"That isn't very nice."

"A _real_ witch. We had agreed to raise you like I was – non-magical – until you developed powers like her, if you ever did. Your brother... I had thought I should tell him the possibility when he was around your age. To save him the shock if it were true."

"But what about _me?_ Did you simply forget to tell me of the possibility?"

"Well," his Father said with a sigh, "You were always less...Remarkable...Than your brother. I had thought the chances were slim considering he was never sent a letter."

"This is true," his brother said with an acknowledging nod.

"Says the person with the James Bond novels hidden under his mattress," the boy muttered.

"We'll need to get you your books, a wand... Some sort of familiar, I suppose..." Mr. Holmes mused aloud.

"I'm sorry, a _wand?_ Like those stupid stage illusionists?" Sherlock said in disbelief.

"You'll see. And speak like a proper gentleman."

Sherlock restrained the desire to roll his eyes, but corrected himself tersely for the sake of his Father, "Like those idiotic actors prancing about the stage with the... the... less than fulfilling intellectually but certainly full in costume size, assistants?"

Mycroft stared at his little brother and said suddenly, "I suppose it will be nice getting rid of him for most of the year, won't it Father? I mean, what ten year old talks like that?"

"One with more class than you," Sherlock said with superiority.

"You'll be beaten up by second term, I know it," Mycroft sniggered.

"End of first, I'd estimate," his Father interjected with a shrug.

"No matter. I'll just... Use magic on them. Or talk my way out of it." He could easily list the number of times other children had intended to beat the shit out of him only to be left scratching their heads as he discussed the merits of beating him up versus simply leaving him be.

And that was that. The straightforward realisation and discussion of young Sherlock Holmes being a _wizard. _But then, that was how every discussion took place in the Holmes residence. And after walking through what seemed a whole other world called Diagon Alley and collecting such nonsense as a _wand _and _school robes, _he had arrived at the train station to try and find a completely absurd platform called _Nine and Three Quarters. _At least he wouldn't have to endure the joke alone however, as his friend John Watson stood beside him with their trolleys full of their luggage.

"I can't believe your Father just dropped us off here without helping at all," John huffed to himself, digging his hands into his pockets nervously. Ever since his growth spurt that had hit him in recent months, he seemed to be uncertain of his new height.

"Well of course he just dropped us off," Sherlock muttered, "What is the point in having somebody else sort out the puzzle pieces?"

"The point _is, _we're going to miss the train if we're not there on _time, _and since you were _late _in picking me up –"

"Well, this is just all too absurd," Sherlock said eyeing the letter. It had to be written by a madman. There were _no_ such thing as a Nine and Three Quarters in _any_ station.

"Can't we just ask someone?" John asked impatiently.

"No we cannot just _ask," _Sherlock looked at his friend appalled, "They'll think we have no idea what we're doing."

"That's because we don't. I'm going to ask –" before John Watson could carry out that threat his words died as he stared amazed at something that should not have just happened. A young girl, perhaps one or two years older than they, had just walked right through the brick wall and had vanished through it, trolley and all. One gaze at Sherlock told John that he had been witness to this phenomenon as well. Only the look on Sherlock's face was not the same wonderment of John Watson. He left his trolley and went forward to the wall, tapping it and then pressing his ear against it. He then turned to John, "I don't understand."

John took Sherlock's trolley impatiently as well as his own, "It's not a puzzle we can solve right now Holmes, all we need to know is that that's how it works. We'll miss the train if we sit dawdling over this. We need to _go. _You go first –"

"I'm not going till I work this out!" young Sherlock said shrilly.

"What's to work out? It's _magic, _Sherlock we'll be late!"

Sherlock took a step back, "I can't – I can't just waltz in there without knowing how it works!"

"Well fine," John said, taking firm grip of his own trolley, "I'll go in first. You do whatever you want."

But Sherlock grabbed hold of his friend's arm, his voice shaky, "I've changed my mind. I'm going to Eton instead of this made-up nonsense called Hogwarts!"

John Watson sighed with irritation, "Do you _want_ to be less remarkable than Mycroft all your life, Sherlock?"

Sherlock let go of John's arm disgustedly, "You want to be a bloody doctor when we grow up, not a shrink."

"Well..." John said tilting his head, "They have their own medical field there, apparently..."

With a sense of fear John had never seen before from his friend, Sherlock cried out, "_I want to go home, I want to go home, I want to go home!"_

"Sherlock!" John said alarmed, "You're being irrational!"

"I'm ten, I'm allowed to be irrational!"

"You never have tantrums..." John said, "Get a hold of yourself. Think of it as an adventure."

But Sherlock would have none of it, "I want to go _home_. I want to be back with the stupid dog, with my stupid brother, and back with my _Father_."

John rolled his eyes, "He'd tell you off for saying stupid more than once in that statement."

"_I don't care. I'd rather he reprimand me right now than anyone there!_"

"Well I'm going. Whatever they have there beats my foster home any day," John took one step back as if to do a runner towards the wall. He would much rather be seated snug and secure in a train compartment than out in the cold air with his best friend, as he suffered some sort of breakdown of sudden homesickness before they had even left.

"I thought you liked Mrs. Hudson?" Sherlock said curiously, out of the blue.

"I do, she's really very nice... Just... Sometimes it's too much. It's suffocating," John shrugged.

"Must be nice being an orphan. People are always nice to orphans," Sherlock said petulantly.

"...Are you _mad?"__  
><em>  
>"Well, having a dead Mother gets a bit of sympathy but I have a living father and brilliant brother. It's not the same," Sherlock answered, seriously.<p>

There was a slight pause as John decided to just ignore the fact Sherlock could be inappropriate at the best of times, till he said regretfully, "I'd rather have all that..."

"It's not nice being brilliant when your brother's better than you," Sherlock looked at him, "It's as depressing as being average or mediocre, really."

John sighed. He'd been doing that a lot that day, though in actual fact he seemed to do that a lot around Sherlock Holmes in general, "Look. Out here we're mediocre. But in there – in there, we're nothing yet. We –"

"Oh, save the inspirational talk," Sherlock said with a snort.

"No, really, Sherlock, listen to me. Don't you see? It really is remarkable we're _both _wizards. We've been friends for ages. It's almost like fate. Don't you think?"

"Coincidence, Watson," Sherlock said disparagingly, "Nothing more, nothing less."

"I like the idea of fate more," John said thoughtfully.

This silly reply seemed to make Sherlock snap out of whatever fear had been taking hold of him, and he grabbed hold of his trolley, "It's not a matter of _liking," _he said sharply,_ "_It's a matter of _fact_."

"Well, are we going or not?" John asked.

"The game is afoot, Watson," Sherlock said, and ignoring his feelings of trepidation, he ran forward and vanished through the wall.

When Sherlock had evidently made it through alive on the other side, he let go of his trolley to look in wonder at the old-fashioned scarlet locomotive ahead of him, labeled the Hogwarts Express which spilled smoke like dirty reams of lace. His eyes fell upon the parents rushing about and hurrying their children on to the train. He knew John would feel a pang for the absence of his own. He knew it was odd that he preferred being without his Father in moments like these. He loved his Father but it gave him the uneasy feeling one has when somebody reads over their shoulder, to have him around. It seemed as if his Father forgot he was a child, what with Mycroft being seven years older, and to be honest Sherlock would have it no other way. The warning horn of the train sounded to announce it would be leaving in mere moments, when Watson came rushing through the wall with his trolley.

"We're late, Watson!" Sherlock stated loudly, over the cacophony of sound from the train and the hurrying people.

"I _told_ you we were late. It's _your_ fault we're late –" John began to argue.

"No time," Sherlock interjected, "I'll hurry ahead and find a compartment."

Before John could say anything, the young man bolted ahead and jumped on the train, leaving him to deal with the luggage.

Sherlock rushed through the corridor, looking through all the compartments, in hopes to find an empty one. This search seemed futile however, as students seemed to be filling every nook and cranny and so he resigned himself to trying to find a compartment where the other inhabitants looked bearable at least. His eyes gazed over a couple of lads holding cards in their hands - no, cards with young people always meant rowdiness...He walked past a compartment with two girls giggling. Giggling in females was both insufferable and contagious, it always attracted more females. He heard through their gossiping scraps of, "Really? Harry Potter is here?" and "Well of course he is, he's a year younger than us, isn't he? I wonder where he is!" with more giggling.

In his hurry, he bumped into a pale boy around his age with white-blonde hair, with two bigger set boys behind him. His eyes seemed to scrutinise Sherlock as he folded his arms, and said with a sneer, "Well, who are _you?"_

Sherlock's eyes quickly gazed over the boy, collecting in all the details that he could, as his Father had always taught him to. Sleek robes...Bodyguard type thugs - did one of them just crack his fists? Oh, how ridiculously _Hollywood!_...Cold eyes...Look of expectancy...With just a slight smudge, ever so miniscule, on his cheek, of what seemed to be lipstick. Curious...

Sherlock opened his mouth to answer when he heard John calling him from behind, panting as he dragged two large trunks, "Have you found a compartment yet?"

"No," Sherlock said absently, "And why are you carrying those on here? Don't they have people for that sort of thing?"

"Yes, but since we were so late the porter told me to bring them-"

"Oh, I see. Well, I've just been talking to -" Sherlock could barely contain his smirk as he looked back to the boy, "Pardon, what did you say your name was?"

The boy was about to answer when he noticed the friend of this stranger pulling something from his trunk, "I thought we could go through my Doctor Who trading cards on the way, Holmes."

The look on the blonde boy turned from the sneer to disgust, "Ugh, come along Crabbe and Goyle. We've been wasting our time on these two fools. Damn Muggle borns, I swear they let anyone in this school now."

Sherlock gestured to the boy's cheek, "You just have something...On your...Yeah...Right there...That's right...Lipstick, is it? Mother kissed you goodbye, ickle child? First time away from home, is it?"

"_No_, it's from some girl. Didn't catch her name. Didn't care," the boy said forcefully.

"Ah, I see," Sherlock's smirk broadened, then held out his hand, "Sherlock Holmes."

The boy did not shake Sherlock's hand as he just nodded to either side of him, "Crabbe and Goyle. And my name is Draco Malfoy. You'll do well to remember it."

"Holmes..." John murmured from behind him, "We've got to find a compartment."

Sherlock ignored him however, as he continued to look at the newly introduced boy, "Draco? As in Latin for Dragon? ...Huh."

Draco shifted on his feet, "Do you find it_ funny?"_

"No, not at all. Unfortunate, actually...I read quite a bit you see, my Father has loads of books. And someone with a name like that tends to...Erm...What's the word, Watson?" he turned to his friend, clicking his finger in the air a few times, "It's a big word...Tends to...To...Make the person _overcompensate _in areas."

"That explains a lot," he heard Watson mutter amused, in his ear.

Sherlock smiled to his friend, "Prat."

"Smart arse, I see," Draco muttered as he pushed past Sherlock and John, "Come on guys, we've been wasting our time. Let's go find Potter. That's what everybody's been talking about."

The train lurched to a start as the two thugs moved past Sherlock, eyeing him menacingly. It would have made Sherlock laugh if the sudden movements underneath him hadn't caused him to almost fall. John caught him before he fell flat on his face, and they both moved forward trying to find a free compartment.

Sherlock sniggered to himself and John asked, "What are you so amused about?"

"Just that that Draco boy will definitely be in the Snake house..."

"Oh," John said interestedly, "There's a reptile house there? They have a zoo?"

Sherlock snorted, "You didn't bother to read on this place, did you?"

"I found the potions book more interesting, to be honest," John replied thoughtfully.

"Bah!" Sherlock retorted, "Nothing but glamorized chemistry."

"Yes, but-"

"Ah, here we go!" Sherlock opened the door of a free compartment and seated himself as John dragged in both their trunks.

Sherlock was quite pleased they had managed to find one for just themselves, when he stared outside at the scenery flying past. Soon they would be heading out country, out into the unknown. It suddenly dawned on him that his Mother would have had the same experience years ago, sitting and waiting to go to Hogwarts and it surprised him that he had a sudden pang for her. She had smelled of parchment and ink, having been a historian. The smell of old books had always been Sherlock's favourite smell. He turned from the scenery at once and listened to John as he prattled on about his trading cards. The only disturbance they had throughout the trip was from a girl with bushy hair and an air of confidence far beyond her years with a plump round-faced boy asking if they had seen his pet toad called Trevor. Sherlock noted how the boy turned nervously to Draco as he pushed past asking to no avail if he had seen him too. The refreshments trolley passed by, with Sherlock not paying the slightest bit of interest or attention as John looked longingly but did not purchase anything.

"I'd wager five quid that girl will be in Ravenclaw. The one with the bushy hair," Sherlock said wrily, halfway through the trip, "I can hear her voice miles away. Hasn't stopped bleating trivia about the school, the whole way up here. Somebody ought to tell her to shu-" he seemed to have a moment of his Father's reprimand for speaking properly in mind, "-Tell her to cease her recitations of that...Blasted book."

"So you'll be in the same house with her then?" John replied bluntly.

Sherlock looked up from the book he had taken from his trunk, and both boys grinned.

"Trevor? Has anybody seen Trevor?" they heard the little round-faced boy cry out in worry as he moved back up the corridor, still looking for his lost toad.

"Your verdict on him, then?" John asked.

"Hmmm...Oddly enough, I'd say the house with the lion. The brave one."

"Really?" John asked with disbelief, "But he's a bit..."

"Yes, but he did ask the school cronies if they had seen the damn toad too," Sherlock said with a shrug, "Shows some sort of-"

"You're full of it. You're always wanting to sound impressive," John rolled his eyes.

"That's my deduction. I'm never wrong," Sherlock replied bluntly.

"Well what house am I going to be in then if you know everything?" John asked.

"Easy. Ravenclaw."

"Oh...You think I'm smart?" John leaned forward, interestedly.

"You'll be with me of course."

"...Ah," John sat back in his seat, folding his arms.

The sky had darkened by the time the train slowed down to a halt at the station in Hogsmeade, and all of the students had changed into their school robes. Sherlock lagged along beside his friend as the rest of the students all clambered off the train, while John pulled both of their trunks.

"...Are you going to carry your own trunk at any point?" John said in between pants as he dragged them both off the train.

"And damage my hands? I need them in peak condition to continue my sword training with Father," Sherlock said absentmindedly, "Anyway, where are we supposed to go? To one of those carriages?" he peered out into the dark.

His question was answered when from behind them a deep voice growled, "Looks like yeh could use some help, little firs' year. Is that yehr luggage? The porter should have taken that, yeh leave it with me little one," the owner of the voice loomed over them and pointed a sausage-like finger ahead of them, "You go over there with the other firsties."

John looked up to the voice high above him and proceeded to lose his hold on the trunks and stumbled to the ground, his eyes wide, "You're- You- H- _Huge_."

"A giant," Sherlock muttered breathlessly.

The large man smiled kindly, his eyes crinkling above the mass of his bushy beard, "'Ere, let me help yeh. Me name is Hagrid. Go on now."

"Oh, thank you! Thank you Sir!" John said gratefully, once he had composed himself, and he and Sherlock hurried off to where they had been directed to, with Sherlock smirking, "I told you they must have someone for that."

So after a boat ride where they first caught a glimpse of the magnificent castle they arrived, cold and hungry. The first years all huddled together as they made their way up to the doors of the castle, while Sherlock dawdled behind, taking everything in, until John took a hold of his robes and dragged him up.

They were just in time for the famous Sorting. Sherlock looked bemused at the stool and old-looking hat that seemed dirty and frayed, and blinked as a tear along the brim seemed to open up as a mouth. The Hat then commenced a long, rambling song which seemed to describe the merits of each of the school houses. He heard John snort and whisper quietly, "Better than Mycroft's singing."

Sherlock listened intrigued, especially when the Hat reached Ravenclaw, the House Sherlock desired to be in the most. He hit John eagerly, as the Hat sang -

_Or yet in wise old Ravenclaw, _  
><em>if you've a ready mind, <em>  
><em>Where those of wit and learning, <em>  
><em>Will always find their kind.<em>

"That's going to be us," Sherlock hissed, and waited half excitedly, half nervously for his name to be called out by the old looking witch who had brought the Hat out.

After a little while, the old woman called out from her roll of names -

"Sherlock Holmes."

Sherlock looked at John excitedly, "Here we go. Oh, if I could only decide upon the proper playwright to quote-"

"Just go already!" John gave Sherlock a none too gentle push to move through the crowd to approach the Sorting Hat.

Once he was up there, in front of the staff table and with the whole school watching him, on closer inspection of the worn out Hat, Sherlock simply stared at it a moment, saying nothing.

"Is something the matter, Mr. Holmes?" the old Professor looked curiously at him.

Sherlock paused, and then said uneasily, "I trust this thing is cleaned regularly. Could be a breeding ground for lice."

The tear along the brim opened once more, and the Hat said, "_Don't fear any bugs with me, son. Only the troubles of your own mind may cause you the need to run."_

"And Bob's your uncle. Let's get this over with," Sherlock promptly sat on the stool, closing his eyes as the weight of the Hat was placed on his head.

_"Ohh, my, my. We are an interesting sort, aren't we?"_

"Yes, now put me in Ravenclaw," Sherlock said firmly.

_"Very smart, yes. Indeed, I see a mind full of wit and ability, and yet...There is more than just a strong mind. I see courage-"_

"I belong with the intelligent house," Sherlock said stubbornly, "Put me there."

_"Ah, but young Mr. Holmes, you have much bravery-"_

"Forget bravery," Sherlock growled, "What does bravery matter if you can't prove your theories? It's nothing."

_"Courage is a great power, young Holmes. With it, you can do amazing-"_

"I'm already amazing, now put me in the right house before I cut you up and turn you into a doily, you prattling excuse of a hat that doesn't even compare to a tea cozy!" Sherlock said rudely.

While this argument was taking place, the Professor looked uncertainly at the old Headmaster sitting at the staff table, his bright blue eyes behind his half-moon spectacles twinkling in amusement. The words of the young first year were muffled and unclear, but it was obvious that he was debating rather stubbornly with the Hat. After awhile he nodded at the Professor, and she moved forward and pulled the Hat off Sherlock.

She sighed, "Master Holmes, come to the Headmaster's office later to finish your sorting. We have the rest of the alphabet from H to sort right now."

Sherlock stood to obey, but before he could be led away, he ran back into the crowd and grabbed a hold of John at the sleeve, pulling him back with him. He looked daringly up into the eyes of the Headmaster, "This one belongs to me. He goes where I go."

"Master Holmes, I really _must _insist-" the Professor began, as the sounds of giggling came from the tables of the students.

The Headmaster held up his hand and she quietened, though her mouth thinned into a disapproving frown, as he looked upon John, quietly, "Would you come later with Master Holmes to be sorted, young man?"

John sighed, "I think it would be best Sir," and the Headmaster finally nodded as they were led away and the Sorting continued.

It was after dinner, that the Professor brought the two boys up to the Headmaster's office. She nodded to Dumbledore as they filed in behind her. Dumbledore smiled kindly and gestured for them both to be seated, "Master Holmes, your Mother was an exceptional witch."

Sherlock nodded, "Thank you Sir. She was from Ravenclaw."

"That she was," Dumbledore nodded, "And you are bright too, yes? Your Father's written to me. He's told me all about you."

Sherlock fidgeted under the Headmaster's scrutinizing gaze. It was as if he was weighing him with his eyes, and it was rather disconcerting. He turned to look at the Hat which was placed on the desk, but was surprised when the Headmaster gestured to John first.

"Master Watson, if you would be so kind."

John avoided Sherlock's gaze as he stepped up and sat in front of the desk, while Professor Mcgonagall slipped the hat over his head, while Sherlock silently willed him to be put into Ravenclaw.

But alas, only a couple minutes after the Hat called out, _"Gryffindor!"_

Sherlock stared at his friend with such disappointment he could not put it into words. He did not realise his mouth was open, until Dumbledore called out his own name. With a click of his teeth as he shut it, he slowly moved forward, and sat down, his jaw set and his eyes proudly forward. Professor McGonagall slipped the hat over him once more, and he sat in silence as the Hat said, _"Ah, Master Holmes, we meet again. Are you still insistent on taking your place in Ravenclaw?"_

"Put me in the house you see fit," Sherlock muttered, "Put me in Gryffindor." There was no way he could be parted from Watson. The thought was unfathomable.

_"I see, I see," _the Hat said, _"You will serve this noble house well, Master Holmes...Gryffindor!"_

* * *

><p>Professor McGonagall sighed wearily with a half-hearted smile after the boys were dismissed and Dumbledore was setting the Sorting Hat carefully back in its place. She seated herself in front of Dumbledore's desk, and when he returned with a wave of his wand the silver teapot on his desk was boiling.<p>

"Well, another year is Sorted," he said, seating himself behind the desk, "Tea, Minerva?"

"Yes, thank you Albus," Professor McGonagall said tiredly, "I am afraid I will have to retire to bed soon however. I can't bump into Severus, I'll never hear the end of it."

The old Headmaster nodded with half a smile, "Yes. Sherlock Holmes is a very unique child. Brilliant. Quite the prodigy. Special."

Professor McGonagall laughed darkly, "Yes, special indeed, I can see that. It seems I have acquired quite the handful. And in the same year as Harry Potter too."


End file.
